The road is a flat slimy black like
liquorice licked & stretched for
weeks on end.
My hand on hop
waiting as shadows evolve to night.
We're at a great Australian bite
bittensmittenkittens drunken rosy
tired & toesy
the taxi
& Van Morrison like a dark brown
honey.
My job, blue shirt & neat long
socks,
is collecting the shavings of time.
Rain is the beat between songs
& I long
(but that's of little matter) slide
past/
rubber on a futon.
Trees hanging crucified with damp.
Bus shelters & toilets -
hoards of homeless about the cover
their
tattered pennants in the pre dark.
You raise a hand
like a greeting (or salute). I don't
care,
the cab just weaves over to your bags
& shuffles the rain.
I've made you speedy & can't understand
why.
Sharing this new address with me is an
intimacy:
I know more than your workmates,
more than the authors
whose bedside books have brought tears
& belly laughs.
There is some nervousness
inevitable
when one meets one.
Don't worry, I take what is required.
We could travel the scenic route
but would never arrive.
As the car leaps like a dolphin
to corner Hampton & Hornsby
Bel
rose.
you explain
why this day is so sick,
so damaged.
How love, seemingly coated
in layer upon layer of waterproof varnish,
simply failed in a morning storm -
left puddles the colour of bruise
all over the driveway.
& your body - gathered in good
faith -
is breaking down/
smart TV ads but no warranty/
impotent arrogance of the mechanics,
tedium of this tollway.
I laugh & disagree.
Corners turn, disappear like
acquaintances.
You lifted your hand to me
& I am charged like a knight
to the honour, the display of any
trip. Your driver.
This is the street. That journey wasn't
hard
& all your problems will either dry
out
or wash away.
Have a fine evening. My touch,
like yours,
is either wind or stone
& both lie down together
in the net of fallen hours.
Previously published in Stories
of the Feet (Five Islands, 2004)
¯
THREE RAIL
WORKERS
In the signal box,
elevated
beyond tracks,
freight or people
Jack was smoking
& talking
like a great
steam engine while
Neal just sat
quiet, his
body so at ease
it was like
the different
parts were talking to each other,
shootin' the
shit.
I was younger,
more stories
than scars.
& Jack
pulled up a bottle from
that busted
brown leather bag he took everywhere.
A few loose
sheets of paper
were caught up
in his hand along
with the bottle
&
it seemed they
were hanging onto that bourbon
like a bunch of
desperate men.
But one by one
each page
dropped back
into Jack's
sack.
There was a
quiet to the place, each
bell or
mechanical chnk discrete & isolated
so that by
themselves the noises barely registered.
Up the tracks
an express
freight stood at the second home with
the patience of
some sedated circus elephant.
Neal wrote a
poem with his huge (caressing) right hand.
Took Jack's
reduced bottle
to his rolling
lips.
Nervous
amongst elders
my jokes aim
for original
but often
just "off".
I was the first
one to break, that
train's power
held back by only
the
insubstantial
fakery of rules,
coloured lights.
Pulled the lever
& the locomotive began its
tectonic shift
towards momentum as
the bottle sunk
to the desk.
Jack scrawled
the time in the signal box log.
He was always the
recorder.
Boy lacks
staying power Neal
mutters.
leave to clean
the points.
Jack smiles,
his pages writhe
in the darkness.
Previously published in Appetites
of Light (PressPress, 2002)
¯
LOOK BACK IN LANGUOR
Summer never
comes till January:
false starts
through crooked Spring ,
breaking of
waters in a wet December,
tossed chum/
the blood of christmas. Then HERE.
Our feet like
dinosaurs on this beach wearing
gold from the
textures of sand
& lovers, we
touch
with the sacred
clumsiness of monks
hungry seagulls
scowl
as tour buses
prowl the promenade
a dance in slow motion (familiar in the dry notes,
dots amongst
coils).
Our thongs wander
past
energetic panel
vans.
Nearby, some
anxious soul says
"there is no
fear" even as he looks.
He is an
extra....
(they also
serve who only stand & stare).
"Bang!"
she laughed happily. Young women, lycra trips,
falling as the
promised old leaves,
falling like the
surf,
falling like ink,
like
something
important
Male hormones
above the droplets airborne, each day
heat hangs over
everyone
like a loan.
The afternoon
breeze arrives innocently
(never, of
course, to be trusted).
Children run
across the placid surface of sunbaking adults,
someone thinks of
dinner.
Hair teased up
like parakeet, Matt, The Cork, parades .
Small humours,
pigment, the constant breaks.
Look back in
languor,
pure as idiocy
happy as pharmacy
I ride the
curving stream of your neck.
Riding this day.
Previously published in The
Ways of Waves (SideWaLK, 2000)
¯
LOST
For Lake Pedder, dammed for electricity generation
1. Over the browns and
ginger
of that month.
Rain
on the day, gangs of
silver
mist
loitered.
First
light ink-brush fingers
combed
the distance / soothing
the
arch back of stone.
2. They are waiting
for
the word
in
weatherblown, torn khaki plastic.
Torrents
in
angry fusillade dropping from the clouds against
the
obdurate calm of the waters,
as
like opposing elements
this
downpour is no relation
to
the lake's still
or
the earthbound beard of ice clinging
brittle
beneath overhangs.
Tears
&
other human stuff
bounce
off the pink sand.
3. Some have dived to find the hidden shore,
pressed
fingers on the old beach.
And
sunsets still bring rose to the water
as
the lake lies buried beneath itself.
previously published in Nitty Gritty (Five Islands,1997)
¯
L.A. HALF LIGHT
Pay the
money, ride.
THIS
IMPORTANT MESSAGE,
wear it
tight
wrapped/
oil
wet
fibres SPONSOR'S MESSAGE
a new technology
smile
a water
based lubricant smile its an
Angelino
evening the
old yellow
sun simply up & gone
like a
chaperone on strike.
DRUGSTORE,
barn sized, never shut. Its aisles/
pain
relief, socks & deck chairs.
PINK
PUSSYCAT blinking quietly,
a building
knitting.
VINE ST BAR
& GRILL or others similar,
alcohollywood
inspirations
on stools when the poets & singers turn to make
this world culture.
Night
traffic ambient prattle
shop window
church collects a few
wandering
hopers passing through.
The people.
Reach past 501s,
chain mail
of badges to clutter each lapel.
That woman
by Vermont.
The smoky
patois
of Harry in
the Downtown Sports Bar.
Latinos,
afro, asian, whites
city
suburbs & tribes separately,
side by
side.
Unchanging
&
newly born
each evening like the city's
famous
ocean breeze
racing
towards the desert.
from Tickle (Island, 1993)
¯